


The Lord Taketh Away

by dark_muse_iris



Series: BTS Oneshot Stories [6]
Category: K-pop, 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Religious, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Angst, Blood, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Cannibalism, Character Death, Children, Christianity, Death, Dominance, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Famine - Freeform, Fantasy, Feudalism, Goats, Harm to Children, Hate Sex, Heavy Angst, Home Farm, Horror, Impregnation, Impregnation Kink, Married Couple, Married Life, Married Sex, Mayhem, Medieval Medicine, POV Female Character, POV Second Person, Poverty, Reader-Insert, Religion, Rough Sex, Serfdom, Sexual Content, Sheep & Goats, Smut, Socioeconomic disparity, Violence, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-16 02:50:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21263861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dark_muse_iris/pseuds/dark_muse_iris
Summary: Every autumn, the dwindling harvest summons fears for the impending winter and its promise of scarcity. For Seokjin and his wife, faith lies in God and their local lord’s generosity to provide what their ailing son needs to survive another year. With each season, however, the lord grows cold-hearted and greedy, squeezing the young family to the brink of despair.Excerpt:The ache is always worse when the wind picks up. The chill in the air hardens your cheeks and you clench your jaw, holding in your breath until it passes. As the gust blows by, leaving renewed concerns in its wake, you harden yourself and refuse to acknowledge them aloud. The thoughts—fears—settling into your bones are enough to deal with. No one is prepared to accept another year of crop failure, emotionally or otherwise…“Are you feeling ill?”Seokjin's dulcet voice restores your focus and you feel guilty for appearing unwell. It is too important to keep calm on the day of the last harvest. There is much at stake and not a single drop of toil can be wasted.





	The Lord Taketh Away

**Author's Note:**

> Pairing: Seokjin x Reader
> 
> Genre: Angst, horror, smut
> 
> Warnings: Werewolf!Seokjin, medieval!AU, married!AU, major character death, excessive violence, horror, cannibalism, mayhem, violence against children, excessive blood, graphic sexual activity, dubcon, rough sex, hate sex, impregnation kink, religious references, male dominance and ego which reinforces societal norms (some of y’all hate it, others get off to it), and socioeconomic disparity courtesy of serfdom and famine in the 14th century. PLEASE don’t read this if you’re sensitive to suffering or heavy angst. I spared no one.
> 
> A/N: I got carried away in some parts. I can admit that. This isn’t the flirty Halloween smut you’re looking for, dears. It may be your thing if you’re into the Great Famine or feudalism, though.

The ache is always worse when the wind picks up. The chill in the air hardens your cheeks and you clench your jaw, holding in your breath until it passes. As the gust blows by, leaving renewed concerns in its wake, you harden yourself and refuse to acknowledge them aloud. The thoughts—fears—settling into your bones are enough to deal with. No one is prepared to accept another year of crop failure, emotionally or otherwise.

The gnawing in your lower spine further reminds you of the inescapable shackles of circumstance which bind you to the land’s fate. You continue to move with haste, bending over to close your arms around each pile of grain. Separating the large piles into smaller stacks, you tie them off into bundles, twisting stalks of wheat around until they form a tight cinch. Your hands are stiff and dry from the handling, but this is the last harvest before the winter arrives so you give it your best effort. The last thing you want is for your husband to feel he’s working without his partner, especially on the day when it counts the most.

Still, the cold nips more than you’d like and your disdain for it doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Are you feeling ill?”

Seokjin's dulcet voice restores your focus and you feel guilty for appearing unwell. It is too important to keep calm on the day of the last harvest. There is much at stake and not a single drop of toil can be wasted.

"I'm sorry, I was distracted for a moment,” you confess. “I can carry on."

"Of course, you can, wife," he replies with a smile, slowing the tool in his hand. "What I meant to say was, are you troubled?"

"Truly? Aren't we always troubled?"

"Yes, every year. But we’ll last. We always do with God's blessing. May he continue to protect our family.”

"Yes," you echo, crossing your chest in remembrance.

The only reason you have lasted through so many harsh winters is that you and Seokjin had relatively good health and each other to rely upon. It was a generosity you took for granted, one that you began to forget when Seojun was born. Your son came into the world with a wail so piercing it disturbed the chickens, but he is the joy of your life. He was a sprightly boy whose laughter filled your family’s heart. That is, until two winters ago when he fell ill with a straining cough and never fully recovered from it. If he experiences too much joy or fatigue, the whistling exhales resurface, whittling him down until he clutches his chest, struggling to breathe.

Your son, like other sickly peasant children living on the estate, is as much a strain on resources as a potential source of labor. The extra mouth to feed is easy to bear when you’re a parent, but the fear of losing him to the cough is not. No parent should ever have to bury a child, yet it is a reality in your world and every winter rekindles the flickering worries. The soil struggles to hold up in the heavy rains. Food becomes scarce. More grow sick and die and the number of bodies climbs each year, so much that you no longer count on your own health to make it through. Every winter your family survives is a blessed one.

As you and Seokjin finish harvesting the last of the wheat field, the tightness in your chest subsides. He turns to you with a warm expression to mark the closing cut of the scythe.

"Finally, and with daylight left too. We may have time to begin grinding the rye."

Your back is too pained to bear the thought of lifting more than you must. "Can we wait until tomorrow? Let us enjoy finishing one task before we begin another."

He laughs, "How long do you want to enjoy it? I suspect if you had it your way, we'd be enjoying it all afternoon and into the morrow!"

Waving your hand dismissively, you protest, "I don't want to waste the daylight, but I'm not an ox!"

"You're far lovelier than an ox, dearest, but only half as obedient."

"Why you!" You grasp a bundle of wheat and smack it against his legs like he's a child in need of discipline. Seokjin feigns injury and cries out until you're doubled over in laughter. You continue to swat him with exaggerated blows.

When you tire and the joyous outburst subsides, he bends over to grab two large bundles. "Come, we don't want them to ripen out here in the field."

Following behind him with two more bundles, you make your way to the large storeroom to stockpile the wheat. Bringing the harvest indoors had been a recent change on the estate, an experiment to see if the crops would last longer than previous years out in the mud. The frequent rains spoiled so much, but in the storeroom, the wheat would dry into a more agreeable grain ready to be milled and sifted.

The shared structure stores the tools and harvested items from your family and three others nearby. Everything you touch, from the racks to the tools to the wheat bundles in your arms, belongs to Lord Wymer, the baron of the estate. Your family has resided and served the estate for four generations. Seokjin’s had been there even longer. Your expectation, as other peasants’, was to serve through the end of your life, growing your family and contributing to the manor’s prosperity.

Nature, as you learned in recent years, sometimes has other plans. The manor always projects growth in times of peace, but it had waned with one failed crop after another. The large storeroom which had once housed bountiful harvests every season is now a shell of its former glory. It is a thought you don't want to dwell upon with a sick child and no surviving relations, save your husband.

Seokjin stacks his bundles into splayed heaps to encourage as much air to pass through its thin stalks as possible. You help by passing off your stacks one at a time. After four more trips to the field and back in the hut, you've had your fill of wheat for the day. When you turn to leave, however, he grabs your hand.

"Don't leave just yet," he murmurs, pulling you close. His large hands press against your lower back and your body softens against his like melting butter.

"It's stuffy in here, we should go," you remind him, trying to pull away. "We still have daylight left."

He wraps his arms tighter and begins to whisper. "Daylight can wait a moment. Look," he nods, signaling around the large room, "there is no one here today. Everyone else stored their harvest a few days ago. We’re alone."

"What are you proposing?" you ask, already aware of his inclination. You haven't shared your marriage bed for any purpose but sleep for weeks. The demands of the estate have delayed your wifely duties for too long and you are cognizant of the fact when your body warms quicker than the storeroom.

"I'm proposing to celebrate the last harvest right here in this hut. Surely, you'll do me the honor?" Seokjin's hands fall to cup your backside and you regret the woolen tunic.

Your husband's heaving chest persuades you to consider him. Refusing him isn’t in your heart to do. Still, you are not in the privacy of your home and should anyone discover you copulating like scoundrels in a den of ill-repute, it would make for quick gossip that would reach the edges of the estate by nightfall. Suffering embarrassing jests for weeks, not to mention the potential punishment, would spoil the prospect for future afternoon delights.

"We cannot risk a pregnancy," you remind him in a hushed tone. "Winter is upon us and we can't—"

"—if the Lord sees fit to bless us with another, then He will provide," he coaxes, pulling at your waist. His hardened spindle presses against his trousers and likewise against your skirt. You relish the attention after a long day and though his prodding could be considered rude, it is enough to remind you how much you’ve missed him.

You take the risk, nodding your head and dragging your palm over his growing need. "It's been too long, hasn't it, husband?" Your teasing inflection at his title makes his clothed knob knock against your hand.

"Yes,” he remarks with a rasp. “I'm ravenous."

He closes in to plant open kisses along your neck. His hands squeeze the flesh of your chest and as his warm breath wafts over your skin, you grow lightheaded with your body's urging. You know he'll only grab for a few moments before the frustration of your covered bosom drives him past impatience. You don't want to wait. You can't.

“Make haste," you hiss under your breath, "I don't want to get caught!"

He quickens, shuffling and tugging at the ties in his trousers. Bunching your skirts over your waist is more arduous work, but you barely remember it or the speed of undress. The prospect of reuniting in carnal pleasure with your husband clouds your thoughts and you care for nothing else.

His intrusion is sharp and stinging. You welcome it with a groan as your squelching core seeks to house every inch. Seokjin’s hand anchors to your left thigh and he sighs in relief as he delivers another thrust. His body presses against yours until you’re flush against the wall behind you. It is so restorative to be connected again, perforated by unspoken yearning. The joy of it threatens to breach your throat and spill from your lungs. Seokjin fares little better with his wavering sighs, labored and unstable. He’s nearly spent from the harvest, but he's so pleased to be nestled deep in your walls that he stays the course, maintaining languid drives as if his body wants to remember every moment.

You want to rut with enough vigor to feel it in the morrow. Your core throbs with an insatiable hunger, one which tempts you toward sordid endeavors. With all the responsibilities from the season changing, it’s been too long for well-mannered love-making. Your body will never be sated if you don’t feel the smacking of flesh. His length glides with such ease, you are convinced you can manage anything.

“More, my love,” you plead. “Take me, take me.”

Your whine and subsequent rocking of your hips spur him to action. He groans and withdraws, then slams hard into you until the back of your head knocks against the wall. Fuzziness tickles the point of impact and you lean against the surface to steady yourself. Seokjin returns to your neck and bites, sucking and lapping against your exposed neck until you close your eyes and arch your back to welcome more of his hammering.

You’re lightheaded, rushing toward your end with no thoughts beyond the lustful burn of your love’s cock. Every thrust of his hips pushes you further up the wall. He grabs your other thigh and you wrap both legs around his waist and bounce on his skewering pillar. He hisses at your enthusiasm and ravishes you in wild abandon until your ears buzz.

It’s easy to get lost when the fear of discovery fades. Seokjin is unable to form coherent words, but his urgent groans stoke your pleasure as you chant, “Yes, yes, _more_, _ah_—”

Your core clenches as the storeroom starts to spin. He clings tighter as his hips jerk. Moaning from his throat, he drives his shaft until you dig your fingernails into his shoulders. Your jaw falls into a silent cry of indulgence as heat swells and secretes your warm release. The coating coaxes Seokjin past the point of shaking and he erupts, burying his face into your neck as his hot seed spurts.

He lowers your body back to a standing position and meets your gaze. You’re both panting with heaving chests and sweat at your brows, but the only expression you wear is a smile. You used each other without getting caught and the thrill of the deed makes you feel alive.

“Wife,” he hums, planting a kiss on your forehead.

“Husband,” you echo, wrapping your arms around his waist as he ties his trousers.

“Can you make it to the house on your own?”

“Are you offering an escort?”

“If I do that, then you’ll only tempt me again.”

You scoff, “Tempt _you_? You forget, _you_ tempted _me_.”

“Not at all how I remember it,” he counters in a playful tone. “You were disobedient, Wife, opening your garden in broad daylight.”

He pinches your sides and you laugh, returning with a shove at his shoulder. “You’re a scoundrel. See if I let you into our marriage bed tonight. You shall sleep outside!”

You turn to head for the door and you feel a swift pop against your backside. Seokjin was always overconfident after coitus. Though he’s sated for now, the knowing look and mention of disobedience hint at a future visit soon. With his appetite, you wouldn’t be surprised to end up with child again.

* * *

Your legs ache as you sit down on the small wooden stool and prepare for milking. Today, you’re thankful to have a well-mannered goat and not one who risks kicking the milk pail. The rope around Agnes’s neck is loose enough to keep her comfortable but too short for her to run off.

Humming the same tune that you always use to calm her, you take a damp cloth and wipe both of her teats clean. When you rub down her udder and underside of her belly, she glances at you with an air of distrust.

“We’ve been over this,” you murmur. “I feed you, you give me milk for my boy.”

Agnes turns her head to stare at the post you’ve tied her to. You warm your hands with hot puffs of air and rub them together vigorously. She doesn’t flinch when you clasp the area just above the teat and squeeze, summoning a thin stream of milk. The spray hits the ground and you repeat the motion with the other teat. When you’re satisfied the stream won’t be sullied with dirt, you scoot the milk pail beneath her and continue with both hands, alternating squeezes.

As the threads of white squirt into the pail, your chest grows lighter. She’s producing a lot of milk these days and you’re thankful for it. Seojun has been a sickly child for most of his life, but the warm milk alleviates the pain in his throat and helps him sleep.

A small voice cries out from behind you. “Agnes!”

She bleats and you flinch, bracing for her to kick, but she doesn’t. You turn over your shoulder to see your son, running up as if to greet a friend. Seokjin follows him with a basket of fresh eggs.

“Son,” you sigh, “Remember when we talked about our voices? We must be calm around her when she’s milking or she’ll get angry.”

The boy’s eyes widened in alarm. “I forgot. Sorry, Mother.”

You see his slumped shoulders and pity creeps into your heart. He’s too young to fully understand his sickness and the scarcity of resources. The milk is precious and she’s the only goat your family has. He’s a child. To him, the goat might as well be the family pet.

“Want to help me milk her?”

The truth is you’re almost done with the job, but the prospect of helping out sparks new interest in his eyes. He nods his head in earnest.

“Right, you see how she’s looking at the stake? She could use a friend. Will you pet her and speak kindly to her for me to help the milk come out?”

Seojun approaches the goat with a hesitant look. “What do I say to her?”

Seokjin places the basket of eggs down and joins in with a suggestion. “You can thank her for the milk and tell her how it helps you sleep.”

“What if she doesn’t understand?” the boy asks. “I don’t speak goat.”

Your husband chuckles and kneels next to him, resting his hand against the boy’s back for encouragement. “She’ll understand if you pet her while you’re talking to her, son.”

Seojun reaches out his hand and recites the words. "Thank you, Agnes."

The corners of your lips curl as he begins to compliment the animal, petting her coat with small strokes. When you move to bump the udder against the underside of her body to glean the last few drops of milk, she doesn’t seem to care. She’s too focused on the personalized attention she’s getting.

“There we are,” you close with a final squeeze before taking the damp cloth and rubbing down her teats one more time. “Thanks for helping me.”

Seojun smiles a toothy grin. He’s proud of himself.

“Time to go inside,” Seokjin announces, leaning over to scoop the child up in his arms. The boy squeals with delight and bursts into laughter.

The happy moment is stolen, however, when Seojun wheezes and releases a strangled cough—the same sickly reminder that he’s unwell and will likely remain so. His eyes well with tears as the coughing fit mounts, deepening the color in his cheeks.

Seokjin looks at you with a grim expression, lips pressed together. There’s no need to exchange words on the matter; you both know how sick your son is. It stings more so soon after the last harvest. The season turns colds along with your hopes and you fear every year will be the same or worse for him.

The rawness of your son’s throat renders you powerless, but you swallow down the feeling and grasp the milk pail.

“Take him inside. I’ll prepare something for him.”

Seokjin nods and carries the boy to the house. You bring the milk and eggs inside before taking Agnes back to the rear enclosure. She looks at you with a long stare like she understands your inner turmoil. Although you’re outside, you can hear Seojun’s coughs slashing his throat from his bed and your hand unsteadily brushes over her coat.

“Thank you,” you rasp.

Inside, you prepare the milk by pouring it through a strainer into a large glass. It’s still warm, the best option to soothe the soreness. You pour some of the contents into a small cup and walk toward the bed where your son is resting. Seokjin’s by his side, looking on with a worn visage.

“Here, drink this.”

Seojun’s hand reaches for the glass. His eyes are weary and for a moment, he looks older than a boy of six. The first taste is a large gulp loud enough to hear. He sighs and releases another cough as if it’s a punishment for taking in too much.

“Small drinks, keep going,” you say in a soothing tone. It’s your hope he will finish the glass and be able to sleep so he can have the solace he needs.

Seokjin’s palm rests on your shoulder before giving it a single squeeze. It’s a small sign of comfort for you and you imagine for him as well. It pains him to see his child sick and coughing after spending the day running around with his friends. Any hope is short-lived and that’s a truth neither one of you want to accept.

“Did you enjoy playing with your friends today?” you ask, hoping to lighten the mood.

Seojun nods quietly, tipping the cup back for another drink.

“What did you play?”

“Swordfighter.” His answer makes him perk up a little. It’s his favorite game to play, even if it’s little more than waving a stick in the air and pretending.

“Ah, swordfighter,” you reply with encouragement. “Did you win any matches today?”

He nods again and turns to his father. “I won one match, but then my stick broke.”

Seokjin laughs, “Sounds like you need a better sword, son. Perhaps in the next few days, I’ll help you find one. We’ll have to get you well first before you can go back outside.”

“I’ll be better tomorrow,” the boy remarks.

Pressing your lips into a thin line, you pause. His cough could be worse when he wakes up again. It’s difficult to predict whether he will truly be well sooner or later. Seojun’s using his charms—or rather, his father’s—to try and get his way. You don’t want his hopes to be so high that he sets himself up for disappointment.

“We shall see.”

The words are calm and nurturing, but the child recognizes it as a denied request immediately and whines, “But I want to go!”

“I didn’t say you can’t, son, but we have to mind your cough.”

“You don’t have to mind it any—”

His voice cracks under the strain of his protest and he starts to cough again. It’s harsh enough to slosh the remaining milk in his cup, but he refuses to let it go when you offer to take it from him. By the time the wheezing fit ceases, there are tears in his eyes. His shoulders slump under the weight of the burden he bears.

You rub his back with an assuring hand. “Finish your milk.”

“I’m sorry, Mother. I didn’t want to get sick again. I didn’t.”

Your heart breaks.

“There is nothing to be sorry for.” You stroke your son’s hair as he nestles deeper under the covers. “Try to get some sleep.”

Seojun finishes the milk and hands the cup back to you before releasing a long yawn. “But I don’t want to miss supper.”

Seokjin reassures him. “We won’t let you. We’ll wake you when it’s time to eat.”

“Can _you_ wake me up?” The small request prompts Seokjin to pat his son’s shoulder before pulling the blanket to cover and tuck him in.

“Of course.”

Seojun accepts his father’s word and drifts to sleep shortly thereafter. You and Seokjin look on for a moment in silence before retreating outside to walk to the communal cellar.

The sun is starting to set and the chill of the air nips at your skin. You cross your arms and press them close to your body, picking up your feet to walk with a brisk pace. It’s a longer trek to the communal cellar than you’d like to take, but you need additional supplies for the next few days. The rustling of grass underfoot signals that Seokjin is closing in to walk alongside you.

“I thought he was getting better,” he says, keeping his voice low. “At least we’ve had a few good days.”

“He could still grow out of it. He’s a strong boy. There have been other sickly children in the village who’ve grown into better dispositions.” Your words are true, but even you are reluctant to believe what you’re saying. The winds of change could turn Seojun’s humors against him at any time.

“Perhaps I should go speak to Lord Wymer,” he suggests.

“No, he would see it as a bother.”

“We don’t know that. We’ve never asked for his help before.”

“We have shelter and we were given a fair share of grain last winter. And we did ask a favor of him. We asked to keep Agnes. She belongs to the lord, not to us.”

“They let us keep Agnes because we know how to tend to her,” he counters. “And besides, the lord’s cook doesn’t know how to make cheese as well as you. I think he’ll understand.”

“What will you ask him for? Lord Wymer’s children are good and plump. They’re well. He doesn’t know about the sick.”

“We could ask for a healer—someone with tonics. Or a barber surgeon.”

Your face burns with anger. “And what will we pay him with? Cheese? It would never cover the cost of tonic or bloodletting.”

“What do you think we should do, then?” Seokjin asks, frustration building in his tone.

“We mustn’t tell the lord. If he thinks our son is sick, he may think it’s another bout of plague. He could take him from us, Seokjin. I won’t let them take my son to the monastery. He’ll never come out again.”

“Perhaps their prayers could—”

“Their prayers are not more powerful than a mother’s prayers, than _my_ prayers!”

Your voice cracks and your feet are unwilling to move further. He stops walking and pauses a moment to let you catch your breath.

“I’m just trying to help our boy,” he murmurs. “He’s my son too.”

“He isn’t getting better,” you argue. “It’s too cold, too soon. If we get a bad frost, he could die. We all could starve. You know it and I know it. How many of our neighbors and friends have we buried, hm? How many?”

Seokjin cleared his throat and looked down at the ground beneath his feet. Despite rotating the fields each planting season, it wasn’t enough to fully replenish the soil. As much as your family prayed for abundance, the soil isn’t as fertile as it once was. Gleaning seeds of hope yielded less and less each year. Now, the condition of the land is an omen that had yet come to pass. Another famine can occur and you may not be prepared for it.

“The Lord will provide,” he recites in a low tone. “We’ve had bad years before and we made it through. And we have Agnes. She’s still got years ahead of her and plenty of milk to give. That should give us something to be thankful for.”

A tinge of guilt stirs in your chest. You’ve lost faith in so much and regret succumbing to gloom without placing your belief where it belongs. He was right. You still had the goat, a treasured blessing, and the chance that misfortune may pass you over.

“She’s the most spoiled goat I’ve ever seen,” you admit.

Seokjin takes your hand and leads you toward the cellar. “Of course, she’s a member of our family. You, me, Seojun, future-brother-of-Seojun, and Agnes.”

In the setting sun, you can barely see your husband’s face, but you hear him smiling as he mentions the prospect of another baby. He’s either confident you’re pregnant again or he’s trying to cheer you up the best way he knows how.

“Brother, hm? Sure about that, are we?” you jest. “What if it’s a girl?”

“Then you’ll have another to help you in the kitchen.”

“We’ll see.”

On the way back from the cellar, you hold his hand while he carries a small bag of grain to thicken up your stew for the evening. It feels secure and you enjoy brushing the rough calluses with your fingertips. Seokjin stays with you and keeps you grounded until you take your place by the fire to start cooking supper.

As you stir the spoon, you whisper prayers into the meal—for the land, for your family’s safety, and for Seojun’s health.

* * *

The next couple of weeks are busy with tasks to prepare the estate for the impending frost. In some ways, it’s busier than farming, as it includes all of the preparation and inventory tasks you neglected to complete in previous months. Much of the wheat you and Seokjin had harvested has dried and continues to cure. The large-scale milling will happen soon and you don’t welcome the event. The other women in the village see it as an opportunity to gossip and exchange complaints about things that will never change. You prefer your husband’s company and the calm, silent breeze of the open air.

As the peasants busy themselves with preparations for winter, Lord Wymer’s messengers observe the progress and report back to him. It’s an inventory, first and foremost, but it’s also an opportunity to share good news in the hopes of finding favor with him. Seokjin hopes to use the inventory report as a chance to ask for help or leniency.

When the lord’s messenger arrives to inspect your family’s contribution, you wish it had been more. Every year, you wish for that.

“As you know, the end of the harvest is very important to our lord,” the messenger recites, eyes casting discerning looks between you and Seokjin. “What shall I report on your behalf?” The well-dressed man presses a quill to the parchment as he waits for a response.

“The yield of grain is about the same as last year’s,” Seokjin says, taking off his hat. “We worked with our neighbors to improve the soil this spring, but it doesn’t appear to have worked.”

“Hm, and why not?”

The question renders your husband uneasy. “We don’t know, sir. We’re willing to try something new next season to improve. Perhaps if one of us from the village could travel to the next town to talk to the farmers there—”

“Lord Wymer does not permit his peasants to leave.”

“We’re out of ideas, sir. We’re trying. The soil isn’t the same as it once was and none of us have the wisdom to know how to improve upon it.”

“So, you need a wise man to tell you what to do?” The notion sounds amusing to the messenger and your belly grows hot with anger.

Seokjin nods. “Perhaps a message can be sent to the next estate and we can get fresh advice, if it pleases our lord.”

The messenger scrawls, his eyes focused on the report. “I will discuss it with Lord Wymer, but don’t count on him embracing the idea. He’s a very busy man.”

“Of course.”

“What about your other wares? How are the animals holding up?”

“We lost a couple of chickens in the last season due to wolves, but we’ve managed well with what we have and we are still making eggs. By next spring, we should be able to replace those we’ve lost. Our goat is doing very well. She continues to make milk for us and we’ve been making cheese.”

“How many goats do you have?”

“Just the one, sir,” Seokjin answers. “The goat was one of the calves given to us by our generous lord.”

“Yes,” the messenger agrees. “It’s a pity you don’t have more to breed with.”

The statement sparks an unsettling feeling, but you push through it to add, “We’re thankful for the goat we have. If we could have permission to breed her, I could make more cheese. We are willing to take on more animals to care for if it pleases the lord.”

“Lord Wymer is interested in getting a full accounting of the estate for now; however, I will report that your family is willing and able to do more.”

Seokjin bows his head. “Thank you, sir.”

It’s a risk to say your family would take on more labor. You were both spread thin already between the farming and related tasks, but you and your husband were in agreement: more goats would mean more milk for Seojun. More cheese could be made and traded. If Lord Wymer is pleased enough, perhaps Seokjin could ask for a healer or tonics at that time.

“Is there anything else you wish to inform our lord?” the messenger asks.

“Yes,” Seokjin answers, “please inform our lord that his bread will be delivered within the next few days. We’re milling it now.”

“Wonderful.”

The messenger makes note of it and heads for the next house. Seokjin releases a long sigh, but looks relieved by the exchange.

“Do you think we could make one of the loaves of bread a sweet bread?”

“We haven’t anything to sweeten it,” you remind him. “It was going to be a hearty loaf, by the looks of the grain so far.”

“What if we had some berries?”

“If we had berries, yes, but I can’t go about collecting. There is too much work to do.”

“Seojun and I could go to the lord’s forest.”

You shake your head. “He’s too young. It’s too dangerous. If the wolves—”

“I’ll go alone, then,” he counters. “I’ll bring the berries back and he can help me prepare them for you. Then he can help you finish it. He wants to help and he’s not too young to learn, ___. He’s persistent.”

He’s right. Your son was getting older and more vocal about what he wants. Whenever you or Seokjin worked, he wanted to be a part of it. No task was too menial in the mind of a child.

But the risk involved with going into the woods—that could be a precarious mistake.

“Why do you want this so much? What’s wrong with the bread I make?”

“Nothing’s wrong with it,” he assures, “but it would be nice to earn the lord’s favor. If we sent cheese, a hearty bread, and a sweet bread all at once, he may be more willing to help us.”

“A loaf of sweets isn’t worth enough to buy the tonic.”

“No, but it’s a start. If we work harder, maybe we could at least get another goat to keep Agnes company.”

The hope in Seokjin’s eyes persuades you past your apprehensions.

“Very well,” you concede, “but you have to return by sundown. I insist upon it.”

“Of course, wife.” He beams a broad smile. “I wouldn’t want to miss supper.”

* * *

The next morning, Seokjin sets off to the lord’s forest with a satchel and a hunting knife. After the months you’ve spent working together to tend to Lord Wymer’s wheat crop, he looks ready for some time alone. You imagine your husband will take his time in the woods and soak up the morning dew. He’ll have time to think and you know he needs that right now, especially with the season growing colder.

You and Seojun spend your morning working in the mill with the other women in the village. They love spoiling him with stories and he enjoys the attention, laughing as he fails to grind the wheat the way you’ve instructed him. You stay focused on the task at hand and hope to have a suitable flour prepared by the afternoon, with or without his help.

At midday, Seokjin stumbles into the mill, disheveled and dirty. His tunic cloth is torn and wrapped around his forearm, soaked through with blood.

“What happened?” Your stomach drops as you stand to your feet in alarm.

“___,” he heaves. His eyes pass over the startled looks of your neighbors. “Can—come home, please.”

The request is a gentler directive than you expect under the circumstances, but your duty is clear.

“Seojun, stay here and keep grinding the grain.”

The boy shakes his head in protest and makes for the door. “But I want to—”

“Look here!” you counter sharply with a snap of your fingers. “You will stay here and mind the mill until I return. Do you understand?”

He turns slowly on his heel to face you and nods his head. He pouts and drags his feet along the floor until he returns to his seat. You exchange looks of maternal solidarity with the other women and wipe your hands on your skirt. Glancing at the doorway, you see Seokjin has already left for the house.

When you enter your home, you find him sitting by the fire and panting as he keeps a tight grasp on his forearm. You want to scold him. You knew it was dangerous to go into the forest and the memory of him suggesting to bring your son along makes you feel sick to your stomach. The cloth seeking to contain the blood has failed to hold it all in, as Seokjin’s hands are sanguine and wet.

The only word you can manage to say is “water,” a recitation of the first step for dressing a wound. As the water heats to a boil by the fire, you take a jug of ale and fill a cup to the brim with it.

“Here,” you say, handing him the cup. “Quickly, now.”

Seokjin raises the vessel and begins to chug the contents. When he finishes, you fill it again.

By the time you find your bone needle, he’s settling into deep breaths. His eyelids are heavy from exhaustion and he’s still sweating from the ordeal. You remove the tunic cloth from his forearm and your eyes well with panic. The injury is unmistakably a bite wound and the deep punctures appear to have dragged through his forearm, splitting the skin into marred rivulets of flesh.

You swallow down the urge to vomit. “This doesn’t look like a wolf bite, Seokjin. What happened out there?”

“It was a monster,” he asserts. “It came from nowhere and overtook me before I realized what was happening. I was careful. I don’t understand how I didn’t see it. I’m sorry, ___. It was a great beast bigger than any wolf I’ve ever seen. I thought I was going to—”

The emotive struggle in his voice is made more apparent by the alcohol. He can’t bear to finish the sentence, yet you know exactly how he meant to finish.

The water by the fire starts to boil. You take a fresh cloth and dip it into the pot. The rag emerges steaming and you wince as you wring the excess water out. Your eyes are stinging from the pain, but it will take a lot to clean the wound and now is the time to deliver on your role as the keeper of hearth and home. If you don’t clean and mend the wound in time, he may lose his arm.

Seokjin braces his feet to the floor and sighs through gritted teeth as you wipe the blood away from his wound.

“Where’s Seojun?” he asks.

“He’s still at the mill. I couldn’t let him see this.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t talk, this is going to take a while. There’s so much,” you pause, turning to remove the pot from the fire and place it between you and him.

You continue to wipe down the gashes on his forearm, your eyes hot and wet. You’ve never seen a bite wound this severe and every moment that passes causes renewed apprehensions. What if it’s too late to repair? How bad will he be scarred? Seokjin’s lightheaded and swaying from the pain he’s in and you don’t have the words to comfort him. You want to apologize for the discomfort, but you can't. You’re so angry with yourself for agreeing to change the bread for a lord who you only see twice a year, you can’t do anything but bite your tongue. You’re as much at fault for this as Seokjin.

When the flesh is clear of blood, you spot signs of hope. The bite marks aren’t gushing, and that gives you the strength to take the jug of ale and pour it over the wound. Seokjin cries out in pain, throwing his head back against his seat. His legs start to tremble from the shock and he broods with a sense of betrayal.

“I know, but I had to,” you ease, quickly returning the jug to the floor with a thud. “This is all we have. We have to use something.”

A solitary tear falls from the corner of his right eye and he nods his head. “Just hurry, please. I want to get this over with.”

“You want more drink first?” you ask, glancing at the jug.

“Y-yeah,” he answers. “Ah, it’s bad. I’m sorry, ___.”

“Stop that. Stop that right now.”

You hand him another cupful and watch as he finishes it off. He releases a long breath of acceptance and nods for you to keep going. You thread the needle and begin to suture the wounds, binding the flesh back, strip to strip. Seokjin winces and chews his bottom lip as he watches the needle curl and disappear into his arm.

“Look away, if you must.”

“Nothing hurts as bad as the bite did. I was so foolish going out there.”

“I was a fool to let you,” you add. “I should have stopped you from going. The berries weren’t worth this.”

“At least I picked some. I picked a lot of them. It was so nice in the woods until this happened,” he recounts. “I walked to the edge of the stream and found all different kinds. I was so happy for us. Thank God, I brought them back.”

“Thank God you brought _yourself_ back.”

“You’ll be pleased with them, once you’re not angry at me anymore.” His laugh grows into a haggard cough and you work the needle faster.

“How did you escape?”

He tilts his head. “I didn’t, but once it had me pinned to the ground and was chewing on my arm, I grabbed for the knife with my other hand. I lost that knife. It got stuck in it and then the wolf ran off.”

“We can trade for a new one,” you suggest. “Don’t go back out there looking for it.”

Seokjin peers at his arm. “I won’t. I promise I won’t.”

* * *

The following week, the bitterness of the cold wind rushes through the estate and sets everyone on edge. You’ve sent multiple loaves of bread to Lord Wymer and his family with the hopes they will show kindness this winter and consider the second goat, but you’ve heard no word.

The lord’s messenger arrives during dinner, calling out for Seokjin without so much as knocking on the front door. The visit sparks alarm in your chest.

Your husband motions to remain seated with Seojun while he goes out front. When he opens the door, you see the glint of plate armor on two armed guards flanking the messenger. Seokjin moves briskly to shut the door, but the open windows allow for you to overhear their conversation.

“Ah, there you are,” the messenger greets. “What happened to your arm?”

“A wolf bite, sir, but it’s mending well. My wife tended to it.”

“Good. Is she inside?”

Seokjin hesitates. “She’s with our son. What’s this about? Is something wrong with the bread we sent?”

“The bread was quite marvelous actually.” The messenger’s voice perks up and you conclude he’s had his share of the bounty. “It was so marvelous in fact, that Lord Wymer is going to have a feast with a few of the neighboring lords and he requires your assistance.”

“We’ll prepare more bread in—”

“—Lord Wymer requires meat for the feast and has sent me to reclaim a few of his animals. From your home, we are taking three chickens and a goat.”

_No, no_, you panic.

“A goat, sir?” The unsettling tension in Seokjin’s voice is unmistakable.

The messenger repeats, “Yes, one goat. Three chickens. Now if you’ll go fetch it—”

You leave Seojun in the house and open the front door, closing it behind you to keep your son from seeing and being seen.

“Good afternoon, my lords,” you begin, joining your husband’s side as the men murmur a greeting in return. “Perhaps there’s been some mistake. When we last spoke, you said you would ask Lord Wymer for a second goat for us to breed. I cannot make cheese for our lord without milk, and it’s softer and more delicious than those from our neighbors with two goats or more.”

“No mistake, I have very clear instructions to take this goat,” the messenger counters in frustration. “It’s just a goat. Without it, you’ll be free to do other work.”

“Please,” Seokjin pleads. “Our son is ill and needs the milk. Without it, he will get worse and worse. He may never recover.”

“If milk is of that much importance to you, I suggest bartering with your neighbors or taking it up with the lord.”

“But we won’t have anything to trade if you take it,” he argues, voice rising. “We don’t have anything else!”

The messenger smirks and crosses his arms. His eyes wander toward you, but not to your face. They roam unapologetically over your chest and waist.

“I’m sure your wife would disagree.”

A sinking pull tugs at your stomach and you realize how quickly and easily the guards could overpower Seokjin if they wanted. Bargaining for a goat will bear no fruit when they’re so quick to suggest such sordid alternatives to bartering.

Your husband’s injured arm wraps around and presses against you to push you back. He’s caught on to their suggestion as well, and he’s enraged by it.

“So, you’ll have my wife sell herself to pay for what you’re taking from us? My son needs that milk. You’re just going to let him suffer? What kind of Christian does that to a _child?!_”

The front door cracks open and Seojun appears. “Mother…”

“Inside!” you scold, directing him to return with a point of your finger.

The boy’s wide eyes don’t understand why men have gathered outside the house. He doesn’t register they’re here to take Agnes and he doesn’t know why his father is on the brink of tears.

But he fears your voice in that moment of maternal protection and he recedes, closing the door quietly.

The sight of his son makes Seokjin hit his breaking point. “My lord, please. I beg you to reconsider.”

“The decision isn’t mine to reconsider,” the messenger says. “Lord Wymer decided this morning.”

“Did he decide to take and take and take from other families, or just ours because the harvest didn’t improve from last year’s?”

The sudden insult is foolish and does nothing to soften the man’s heart. “You’ve got a lot of pride for a peasant. The only reason you ever had the goat to start was because of the lord’s generosity. You have a wife, son, a roof over your head, food to eat, and all you must do is render unto the lord what is rightfully his. Lord Wymer is the keeper and the provider of this estate and all the people living in it. When you make demands, it makes one wonder whether our lord has been too lenient with you and your family. You’ve forgotten your place—both of you—and if you need to be reminded, these two men here will ensure you never forget again.”

The guards look intrigued and hopeful they will have a chance to make an example of you. The fear they will carry out such a punishment makes your blood run cold.

Seokjin turns to you with a pained expression. “Get in the house, ___.”

You say nothing because you know you mustn’t—not with the eyes of the other men upon you. Nodding your head, you offer a passing press of your hand against his lower back. His shoulders droop as he watches you return inside. When the door closes, you hear Seokjin’s voice through the open window.

“I’ll get the goat. If you’ll follow me around the house, please.”

Seojun tugs on your dress and your heart shatters. The searing burn in your throat rises to fill your eyes with tears, and there’s nothing you can do to change it. The lord has taken away one more hope from your family.

[BREAK]

Over the next few days, your family mourns the loss of Agnes. If the rasp in his throat doesn’t keep him awake throughout the night, Seojun’s fortunate enough to cry himself to sleep. Seokjin’s joy wilts to indifference and you feel the weight of wondering whether there was something else you could have done. The hallowed, blank look on his face is unreachable and unchanging. You have seldom felt as powerless as you feel in the space where your family finds a new normal, a way to move on without her.

With winter approaching, you keep yourself busy with preparing bread and ale from the stores of dried wheat. Seokjin assists as he always has, but this year, he’s distant. You attempt to regale him with village gossip to liven his spirits, but his responses are little more than nods and intermittent hums.

“Are you ill?” The question is the gentlest way you know to breach the unspoken thoughts.

“Hm?” Seokjin pauses, lifting his head from the bucket. His hands slow the task of stripping the wheat and he looks at you puzzled. “Did you say something?”

“You didn’t hear what I’ve been saying all this time?”

“Erm—no, sorry.”

“Are you ill?” you repeat. “How’s your arm?”

He rotates his wrist and examines the bandages. “Seems to be okay, other than the itching. The itching is constant.”

“It’s itching?”

“Yes, ripping my arm off is all I can think about.”

“Perhaps I should trade for some ton—”

“No,” he refuses. “I don’t want to owe anyone anything.”

You don’t have a response to such a weighted statement. Your family owing everything to Lord Wymer was one reason you were in the misfortune you were in. Every afternoon, you wish Agnes was free to milk and tend to. It was work caring for the goat, but the reward was reassurance and hope for your son’s health. Lately, that hope had been whittled down to almost nothing.

The forlorn expression on Seokjin’s face is akin to a soggy, wilted dandelion. He needs a distraction, and you have one which may improve his mood: yourself.

“Seojun’s gone to play with his friends. He’ll probably be out most of the day since he finished his chores early.”

Seokjin makes a curt nod, half-listening.

You place your bowl onto the ground. “You and I could go back to the house and enjoy the fruits of our marriage bed. What do you think?”

“Shouldn’t we work faster and take advantage of him being gone to get ahead?”

“We _could_, or we could take advantage of him being gone in other ways.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea, ___.”

“Why not? We’re ahead for the day. It would be a nice distraction for both of us.”

“I have a lot on my mind,” he murmurs with irritation in his voice.

“I can fix that if you let me.”

He drops his bowl and points his finger. “Why do you want this so much?”

You huff. “I miss my husband and I haven’t seen him since you got hurt. You were bitten, but that’s it! I saved your arm and you’ve been brooding like a child ever since!”

“You weren’t out there in the woods with me. You have no idea what’s out there.”

“And that’s my fault? You’re punishing me when I didn’t want you to go out there in the first place, is that it?”

He growls. “I did my job. I went out there, I got the berries, I brought them back. I give and give and give. And look at what’s left! Nothing!”

“Nothing?!” You stand to your feet. “This—” you wave your arms around to point at the surrounding stacks of wheat “—this isn’t nothing! This is our hard work, our labor, our time and effort.”

“And _none_ of this is ours! Don’t you see that? We are imprisoned here.”

“This is our home and the lord has provided for us, remember? We have a home and a family with his blessing and continued support.”

Seokjin stands to his feet and shakes his head in rebuttal. “No, no, it’s only ‘continued support’ when it serves him. The only reason he let us have Agnes is that you were keeping him fat on all the cheese. We gave him our best wares and for what? What are we left with now?”

“We still have our family,” you retort. “We still have Seojun.”

“And he’s sick, ___. He’s getting worse. How long is he going to last when we have nothing to give him? We can’t change the winter cold. It comes and takes from us every year, just like our most esteemed and generous lord!”

The hairs on the back of your neck stand to attention. You’ve never heard Seokjin speak with such anger and resentment in his voice. The prospect of losing something else seems insurmountable and only fuels his possession. He acts as if he’s owed something above his station.

“Don’t talk like that,” you scold, lowering your tone. “If one of the others hears you—”

“I don’t care if someone hears,” he counters. “Let them come.”

“Why, so you can fight and cause more problems than we already have?”

His nostrils flared like a dragon puffing smoke. “I don’t think you understand how angry I am.”

“Show me, then,” you propose, raising your chin in defiance. “Set aside your work and take me to the house and show me.”

His eyes darken with anger. "To the house, then. Now."

You leave your milling work on the floor and stomp out of the storeroom. Seokjin follows behind with a fury that quickens your steps and hardens your resolve. You're determined to both withstand and exhaust him until you’ve won.

As soon as the front door closes, you turn around and meet the clawing hands of your husband as he lifts your skirt.

"Off. I want it all off."

"I'll get it," you fire at him, batting his hands away. "Take yours off."

Seokjin grunts and throws off his tunic. He jerks his hands at the laces of his trousers until they loosen, then he shoves them down while angrily trying to slip out of his shoes at the same time. Watching him wrest free from his clothes in so vicious a manner is both startling and exciting. The expectant look he wears signals a long overdue punishment is coming. His assertive presence can be felt in the room and it's intoxicating, like a challenging game you've always wanted to play.

When you're free of your clothes, you discover Seokjin tugging at the bandage on his forearm.

"Don't. Leave it."

"I hate it."

"Leave it and I'll check it later."

"Don't tell me what to do," he warns, stepping closer. He raises his finger toward the bed, delivering a silent command to go where you're required.

"I do what I want in this house—_my house_," you counter.

He scoffs, the corner of his lips upturned at the game you want to play. You offer an insolent smirk in return as he takes the final steps in front of you and seizes your body, throwing it over his shoulder. After a few steps, he drops you on the bed with the same care he uses to stack hay.

You're disoriented by the change in position and try to shuffle to sit up and challenge him, but before you find your bearing, he hurls a swift pop against your vulva. The sting is sharp enough that you yelp in pain and raise your hand to retaliate, sending a blow across his face.

His bare chest heaves a deep breath as his cock twitches, moving from a state of partial hardness to fully erect. He scoops his hand beneath the side of your body and flips you onto your stomach. Then, he fires off two spanks against your backside and you grunt into the mattress. The forceful attention and focus of his hand make you smile against the pillow. You arch your back to taunt him, but as you lift your hips, he dips his hand between your legs and presses his rough fingertips against the gathering slick. Your hips grind against his touch.

“You want to play the whore, hm?”

Another smack ricochets off your flesh and your face burns with shameful want as images of praying before the priest flicker behind your eyelids. Rear entry intercourse was prohibited and punishable if you were discovered, and that’s what he wants. You can’t refuse your husband after working so hard to entice and distract him, nor do you want to refuse when your body thrums with an urge to sin.

Your pleasant hum is all he requires before plunging two fingers inside your well. The squelching sound makes you bite your lip and raise your hips higher to give him deeper access. His fingers dive and drag until you melt into his motions, undulating as if to mate with his hand.

Seokjin murmurs something behind you, but you can’t make it out. His hand withdraws and you turn your head to see him stroking his rigid length with beady eyes. His face wears a lecherous countenance that enthralls and ensnares. The thought of pairing in such a sordid way lures him to the same fire you’re already basking in. His chest rises and falls in quickening paces and with each puff of breath, your clit aches with hope for a hard delivery.

When you turn your head back, he presses his cockhead against your entrance. His breach is slow, a dragged-out taunt which compels you to nod your head like a child about to receive a sweet. It’s shameful how quickly you’ve descended into wanton lust. Your head stills and your neck stiffens when he sends a sharp thrust deep into your walls. A tightness coils around your lungs as the power of his drive expels the air you breathe. The stretch burns and it hurts, but it’s the only feeling you want.

He groans, digging his fingers into your waist as he withdraws and repeats, throttling his mast and driving it to the hilt. Each push presses his ridged abdomen against your body and the skin of your breasts and belly stretches as you slide further up the bed. Your fingertips sink into the blankets as you grasp for a means to withstand the conflagration.

The piece of your soul which allowed the sin keeps a fervent grip on your will. Just as you want to outlast, you want to be ended, so you spread your thighs, arch your body, and press against your hands to send your heated honeywell back to be satisfied, smack after smack, thrust after thrust. Each drag of your body against the fabric rubs roughness into your nipples and every blast of his hips makes your eyes well with thanksgiving. Seokjin hasn’t spoken a word since asking if you’ll play the whore and it feels so good being used like one, but you lack the means to confess it. You can’t speak because you can’t think. Your head is buzzing with sordid firecrackers for copulating this way, for every way you have in the last year to steal joy wherever and however you can.

_God, it’s coming. It’s coming._

Another series of possessive thrusts and you’re over the edge, pressing your face into the mattress to muffle your whines as your core clenches and soaks his throbbing length.

Seokjin hisses through his teeth and ruts harder until the smacking of flesh makes your ears tingle. He withdraws and dives his hand beneath your waist to flip you onto your back. Your chest is heaving with labored breaths, your folds puffy and hot, but he doesn’t delay. He doesn’t wait to check on your condition. He doesn’t slow.

You cannot recall the last time he was so rough with you. You have no complaints with your body thrumming like a hummingbird’s wings, but under the surface, you suspect he’s hurt by all that’s happened. He’s coping as though the force of his body has the power to destroy. You’ve never seen his eyes so black and blown out. He looks like a man possessed.

His cock is damp and painfully swollen when he swats his hand against your inner thigh to spread your legs apart. When he drives into you again, you clasp your hand over your mouth as the searing fire of your swollen walls burns with pain. He groans a guttural sound of pleasure and your body relaxes into his movements, rising and rocking to meet him with each row. Your fingertips cling to the blanket beneath you as your eyes flutter shut. He needs this so much and you feel it in the moment; you want to give him everything.

Seokjin lowers his body on top of yours until your abdomens touch. Your neck flares up with heat when his drives rub pressure against your pearl. Memories of your previous union in the storeroom fog your mind and you smile. You muse over his words: The Lord will provide. This may be the best feeling you’ve had in months. If you end up with child from this union, you’ll be so happy—no, _fulfilled_. Filled and fulfilled. You widen your legs as you accept his offerings, hoping he will spill his seed and grow your family again.

A wet drag against your neck persuades you to open your eyes. You can barely see from all the haziness, but you can smell the sweat matting Seokjin’s hair as he licks your skin. Your moans encourage him and he continues to ravage your neck while undulating deep dives into your willing heat.

When he moves to your lower neck, he bares his teeth and traces them against your flesh like he’s testing a new tease. The sharp sensation sparks renewed vigor and you move your hands to graze along his lower back. It’s noticeably hot and he’s slick with sweat.

A low rumble sounds from within his lungs and your heartbeat races. It is so low, so deep that it almost frightens you. You close your eyes to relish how exciting this union has been, but as soon as you do, Seokjin bites you. _Hard_.

“Ach!” you hiss, eyes stinging. The pain pulls you out of the pleasure for a moment, but his next thrust ushers you back in. Seokjin’s determined to have his way and you assume it’s because he’s close to his end.

Your hands reach higher on his back as you seek to refocus on your pleasure. The sweat makes it easy to glide your hands. When you reach his lower ribs, however, you notice something other than muscle: hair. Lots of hair. Or is it…fur?

_What is that?_

“Seok—”

You open your eyes and see entranced, yellow beads staring back at you. Seokjin’s face is stoic, no—rigid. And the eyes staring at you aren’t his, but a demon’s.

He maintains his cadence, plunging his sword and panting heavy breaths. His breath is rancid and reeks of death and decay. The smell is so alarming that you jerk and try to push his body away from you.

“Stop,” you warn. “We need to st—AAAHHHH!!!”

Seokjin’s teeth sink into your shoulder and clamp down with a force so powerful your stomach lurches into full panic. He’s latched on and you can’t move. You can’t break free. Your shrieks of terror rise until your ears ache and your eyes dart wildly as you try to escape from him. He groans and grinds into your core and you realize he can’t hear you. Your husband can’t hear your or he’s ignoring you completely.

Or he’s not your husband.

You ball your hand into a fist and hurl it into the side of his abdomen and scream as loud as you can.

“SEOKJIN!”

His body jolts and he pulls away from you, his mouth red and bloody. His lips quiver in fear and he starts to tremble, withdrawing from your core and backing away like a scared child.

“___, what—what’s happening?”

“You’re hurting me, you bastard! Get off!” you shout, kicking your feet wildly at him as you scramble to put distance between you and him. _Why are his eyes still yellow?_

“My god, you’re bleeding—I don’t know what’s…I’m so sorry, I—” Seokjin’s voice is stricken with grief and as he speaks, his back swells in pulsing bursts. Thick black fur coats his shoulders and he starts to scream in pain. You have never seen a man so terrified in your life.

He jumps away from the bed and makes for the front door, throwing it open with a bang. His nude form is half-covered with large tufts of fur and it appears to be spreading down his legs. He runs to the front yard and collapses into the mud. You hear his screams and rush to the open door. The cold wind nips at your naked body but you can’t turn your eyes away from the horrific transfiguration befalling your husband. He’s crouched in the dirt and the setting sun makes his glaring amber eyes all the more chilling. His shoulders ripple and grow and he writhes with shrieks of torment, his arm outstretched to the front door.

He can see you. Seokjin sees you and is reaching for aid—but you can’t move your feet. Your fear of the monster he’s becoming has anchored them in place and the throbbing pain in your shoulder is so painful, your heartbeat rings in your ears.

You look on in horror as he lowers his arm in defeat and braces his hands against the ground. His violent shouts of agony mount as his body succumbs to the evil and the darkness of his mutation obscures him from view. He sits back on his heels and closes his eyes as his chest contorts and swells into a bungling mass of monstrous flesh.

An ear-piercing howl rips from his chest like the first break of a freed animal. The sound seizes your body with fear and you rush to shut the front door and bolt it. Your panicked whines feed your distress as you shove two chairs to block the door.

Seokjin continues to howl, louder and louder. You glance out the window and gasp at the sight of him. He’s now two feet taller, covered head to toe in a thick coat of ebony, and his face has shapeshifted into that of a wolf. As he howls, you can see the gleaming white fangs. Some of them are painted in your blood.

_The wolf bite._

The realization hits you square in the chest. The monster in the front of the house stops howling and rushes back to the front door, throwing its body against it. You lunge at the furniture to hold it back while claws scratch menacingly against the wood grain. The creature growls at the barricade preventing it from getting what it wants.

_He’s gone, he’s gone…God, he’s gone! _

The creature bolts in massive leaps away from the front yard and out of view. After a few seconds of hearing nothing but the low throbs of terror in your ears, you hear them—the screams of your neighbors. Your open windows provide the gateway to hear their pleas before the creature’s wolf fangs take their fill.

The edges of your fingertips graze your wound’s edges as you close your eyes, stricken by the blood-curdling gurgles of the farmhand next door. His sister’s screams break through the slaughter at such a high pitch, you barely recognize it’s her. That’s the last sound you hear before her life is swiftly cut off by the beast.

Faint cries of despair unfold deeper in the village as the monster that used to be your husband rampages on. You grab Seokjin’s tunic and throw it over your body as you hasten to the rear window. The villagers call out “demon” and “werewolf” in horror as they witness the onslaught of their loved ones. Lanterns flicker and break on the ground as new victims emerge from their houses. Each life that dares to step out is swiftly snatched and devoured.

The longer it lives, the faster it rages. As you watch from the window, you see the obscure figure dash like a fox. It no longer takes its time as it did with the first few kills, but it tears through the innocents one by one for a single purpose—to leave no one alive. The worn dirt paths that used to sound peaceful at sundown are now stirring with the pattering of footsteps. People are running, foolishly trying to escape it. Others sound like they’re slamming doors, only to have them torn from the hinges. You’re relieved, for a moment, that you were quick enough to barricade the door with enough furniture, or else you and Seoj—

Seojun.

_Seojun_.

_God, no…_

Seojun heads home on his own at sundown. He takes the same path from his friends’ favorite spot by the pond nearly every afternoon, and it is the same path you’re watching and hoping to wake up from.

“No, no, no!” you panic, scrambling away from the window to check the others for signs of your son. “Please God, please, please keep him safe. Keep him hidden. Keep him—”

Your prayer halts at the sound of wheezing coughs.

_He’s outside!_

Small hands smack rapidly against the front door as the coughing intensifies. “Mother! Mother, let me in! I can’t breath!”

“I’m coming!” you shout, bracing your hip against the first chair which blocks the door. You give it a hard shove until it catches the woven rug and slows.

_Dammit!_ You thrash at the top of the chair to turn it over, then focus on the next piece of blockage.

Seojun keeps calling from outside. “Hurry! Something’s happening and people are screaming. I’m scared, Mo—”

“I’m coming!”

The coughing stops and then his hands erupt into a cacophony of raps against the door. “Mother, let me in! _What is that thing?!_”

“NO!”

The last chair skids across the floor and you tear the door open to hear the last call of your name. The beast is there, its fangs sunk deep into your child’s throat, muffling his blood-soaked cries. Seojun’s eyes are wide with panic and his jaw drops as the last scream never comes.

“NO!!” you shriek, shoving your hands against the bulging black fur of the werewolf.

But it doesn’t stop, mauling the chest cavity next. It digs its snout deeper inside the flesh and your throat cracks with tastes of blood. You throw yourself at the beast again, determined to shield your son’s body from further desecration. Your hands dive for him and his corpse is still warm, but it’s lifeless. It’s too late.

A loud snarl swells from behind you as the beast disapproves of its interrupted meal. You clasp the child and bring him to your chest, sobbing your grief as your head empties of all you ever loved.

Your husband is gone.

Your son is gone.

There is no god.

Hope is gone.

The hot, dank breath of the werewolf is the last scent to fill your nostrils before its claws pierce your ribs. You cling to Seojun tighter and close your eyes, relinquishing your last moment as the teeth sink back to their first bite.


End file.
